Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Magnus, open the door,” Royce whispered.

  There was no answer.

  “Magnus, come on. Hadrian is hurt and I’m gonna need your help. Open up.”

  Silence.

  CHAPTER 18

  WINTERTIDE

  In the darkness of the prison, Amilia lay cradled in Breckton’s arms, pondering the incomprehensible—how it was possible to drown simultaneously in bliss and fear.

  “Look,” Sir Breckton whispered.

  Amilia raised her head and saw a weak light leaking around the last cell’s door. In the pale glow, the figures in the prison appeared ghostly faint, devoid of all color. Princess Arista, Sir Hadrian, and Degan Gaunt lay in the corridor, on a communal bed built from straw gathered from all the cells. The three looked like corpses awaiting graves. Sir Hadrian’s torso was wrapped in makeshift bandages stained frighteningly red. The princess was so thin that she no longer looked like herself, but Degan Gaunt was the worst of all. He appeared to be little more than skin stretched over bone. If not for his shallow breathing, he could have been a cadaver, several days dead.

  During the night, a man had broken into the prison in an attempt to free them. He had opened the doors to the cells, but the plan to escape had failed. Now the man prowled around the prison.

  “It’s morning,” Sir Breckton said. “It’s Wintertide.”

  Realizing the light indicated a new day, Amilia began to cry. Breckton did not ask why. He simply pulled her close. From time to time the knight patted her arm and stroked her hair in a manner she could hardly have thought possible less than a day before.

  “You’ll be all right,” he reassured her with surprising conviction. “As soon as the empress discovers the treachery of the regents, I am certain nothing will stop her from saving you.”

  Amilia pressed her quivering lips tightly together. She gripped the knight’s arm and squeezed it.

  “Modina is also a prisoner,” Arista stated.

  Amilia had thought the princess was sleeping. Looking over, she saw Arista’s eyes were open and her head was tilted just enough to see them.

  “They use her as a puppet. Saldur and Ethelred run everything.”

  “So she’s a complete fabrication? It was all just a ruse? Even that story about slaying Rufus’s Bane?” Breckton asked her.

  “That was real,” Arista replied. “I was there.”

  “You were there?” Amilia asked.

  Arista started to speak, then coughed. She took a moment, then drew in a wavering breath. “Yes. She was different then—strong, unwavering. Just a girl, but one determined to save her father and daunted by nothing. I watched her pick up a bit of broken glass to use as a weapon against an invincible monster the size of a house.”

  “There now, my lady,” Breckton said. “If the empress can do that, I am certain—”

  “She can’t save us!” Amilia sobbed. “She’s dead!”

  Breckton looked at her, stunned.

  She pointed at the light under the door. “It’s Wintertide. Modina killed herself at sunrise.” She wiped her face. “The empress died in her room, in front of her window, watching the sun rise.”

  “But… why?” he asked.

  “She didn’t want to marry Ethelred. She didn’t want to live. She didn’t have a reason to go on. She… she…” Overcome with emotion, Amilia rose and moved down the corridor. Breckton followed.

  Hadrian woke to the sound of Arista coughing. He struggled to sit up, surprised at his weakness and wincing at the pain. He inched close enough to lift the princess’s head and rest it on his thigh.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Scared. How about you?”

  “I’m great. Care to dance?”

  “Maybe later,” Arista said. Her body was bruised and covered with ugly red marks. “This sounds terrible,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

  “This sounds stupid,” he replied, “but I’m glad I am.”

  “That is stupid.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had a run of stupidity as of late.”

  “I think we all have.”

  Hadrian shook his head. “Not like mine. I actually trusted Saldur. I made a deal with him—and Luis Guy, of all people. You and Royce wouldn’t have made that mistake. Royce would have used the time between jousts to break you out. And you—you would’ve probably figured some way to take over the whole empire. No, you two are the smart ones.”

  “You think I’m smart?” she asked softly.

  “You? Of course. How many women could have taken a city in armed conflict with no military training? Or saved their brother and kingdom from a plot to overthrow the monarchy? And how many would have tried to single-handedly break into the imperial palace?”

  “You could have stopped before that last one. If you didn’t notice, that was a colossal failure.”

  “Well, two out of three isn’t so bad.” He grinned.

  “I wonder what is happening up there,” Arista said after a time. “It’s probably midday. They should have come and taken us to the stakes by now.”

  “Well, maybe Ethelred had a change of heart,” Hadrian said.

  “Or maybe they’ve decided to just leave us down here to starve.”

  Hadrian said nothing and Arista stared at him for a long time.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I want to ask you to do me a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s not an easy favor to ask,” she said.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Name it.”

  She still hesitated and then took a deep breath. Looking away at first, she said, “Will you kill me?”

  Hadrian felt the air go out of him.

  “What?”

  She looked back at him but said nothing.

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “You could strangle me.” Reaching out, she took his hand and placed it to her neck. “Just squeeze. I’m certain it won’t take long. I don’t think it will hurt much. Please, I’m so weak already, and Royce didn’t bring any food or water. I—I want it to be over. I just want this nightmare to end…” She started to cry.

  Hadrian stared at her, feeling the warmth of her neck against his hand. His lips trembled.

  “There’s this rat, and he’s going to…” She hesitated. “Please, Hadrian. Oh, please. Please?”

  “No one is going to be eaten alive.” Hadrian looked again at the marks on her skin. “Royce is working on a way out. This is what he does, remember? This is what we always do. We’re miracle workers, right? Isn’t that what Alric calls us? You just need to hang on.”

  Hadrian took his hand from her throat and pulled her close with his good arm. He felt dead inside, and only the stab wounds reminded him he was otherwise. He stroked Arista’s hair while her body jerked with the sobs. Gradually, she calmed down and drifted back to sleep. Hadrian faded in and out as well.

  “You awake?” Royce asked, sitting down next to Hadrian.

  “Am now. What’s up?”

  “How you feeling?”

  “I’ve had better days. What have you come up with? And it better be good, because I already told Arista how brilliant you are.”

  “How’s she doing?” Royce asked.

  Hadrian looked at the princess, who remained asleep, her head still resting against him.

  “She asked me to kill her.”

  “I’ll take that as not well.”

  “So? What have you found out?” Hadrian asked.

  “It’s not good. I’ve been over every inch of this dungeon three times now. The walls are solid and thick. There are no cracks or worn areas. Even with Magnus doing the digging with his special chisels, it took over a week to dig in. No telling how long it would take to tunnel out. I found some stairs leading up to what I assume is the entrance, but there’s no lock. Heck, there isn’t even a door. The stairway just ends at the stone ceiling. I still don’t know what to make of that.”

  “It’s a gemlock. Like Gutaria.
A seret in the north tower has a sword with an emerald in the hilt.”

  “That would explain it. The door I came through won’t budge. It’s not locked, so it must be jammed somehow. It’s probably our best chance at getting out. It’s made of wood, so feasibly we could try to burn it down. It’s pretty thick, though, so I’m not sure I can get it to catch even by using the straw and oil from the lantern. And the smoke—if it doesn’t kill us first—could signal our escape and guards would be waiting at the top.”

  “Arista and Gaunt can’t climb out through a well,” Hadrian pointed out.

  “Yeah, but that’s just one of the problems. I’m positive the rope isn’t there anymore. I’m not sure if they grabbed Magnus or if he’s responsible. Either way, anyone bothering to spike the door would take the rope too.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  Royce shrugged. “The best I can come up with is to wait for dark and then try to burn down the door. Maybe no one will see the smoke. Maybe we won’t suffocate before we can break it down. Maybe I can slip out unnoticed. Maybe I can kill the guards. Maybe I can rig a way to pull you out of the well.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes.”

  “No kidding. But you asked.” Royce sighed. “You got anything?”

  “What about Arista?” Hadrian looked down at her sleeping face again, which he held cradled with his good arm. “She’s weak but maybe—”

  Royce shook his head. “There are runes all over the walls. Just like the ones in the prison Esrahaddon was in. If she could do anything, I’m pretty sure she would have by now.”

  “Albert?”

  “If he has half a brain, he’ll lie low. At this point he can’t do anything but draw attention to himself.”

  “What about the deal Merrick offered?”

  “How do you know about that?” Royce asked, surprised.

  “He told me.”

  “You two talked?”

  “We played chess.”

  Royce shrugged. “There’s no deal. He’d already told me what I wanted to know.”

  They sat side by side in silence awhile. Finally Hadrian said, “I doubt this is any consolation, but I do appreciate you coming. I know you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of saying that?”

  “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure this will be the last time. At least I finally got to Gaunt. Some bodyguard I turned out to be. He’s nearly dead.”

  Royce glanced over. “So that’s the Heir of Novron, eh? I sort of expected more, you know? Scars, maybe, or an eye patch—something interesting, distinctive.”

  “Yeah, a peg leg, maybe.”

  “Exactly.”

  They sat together in the dim light. Royce was conserving the lantern oil. Eventually Breckton and Amilia returned and sat beside Arista. Lady Amilia’s eyes were red and puffy. She placed her head on Breckton’s shoulder, and he nodded a greeting to Hadrian and Royce.

  “Royce, this is Sir Breckton,” Hadrian said, introducing them.

  “Yeah, I recognized him when I opened the door. For a moment, I thought it was Wesley looking back at me.”

  “Wesley? You’ve met my brother?”

  Hadrian said, “We both have. I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything at the feast. Royce and I served with him on the Emerald Storm. Your brother had taken command after the captain was killed. I’ve followed many officers over the years, but I can truthfully say I never served under a more worthy and honorable man. If it wasn’t for Wesley’s bravery in battle, Royce and I both would have died in Calis. He made a sacrificial charge so others would live.”

  Royce nodded in agreement.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Sir Hadrian. If that is indeed true, then I thank you. Between the two of us, Wesley was always the better man. I only hope I shall meet my end half as well as he did.”

  Saldur fumed as he started up the stairs to the fifth floor. It was past midday and they should have left for the cathedral hours earlier. The Patriarch himself was waiting to perform the ceremony.

  As far back as Saldur could recall, which was a good many years, the Patriarch had never left his chambers in Ervanon. Those wishing to see him, to seek his council or blessing, had to travel to the Crown Tower. Even then, he accepted audiences only on rare occasions. The Patriarch had a reputation for refusing great nobles and even kings. Even the highest-ranking members of the church never saw him. Saldur had been bishop of Medford for nearly ten years without ever meeting the man. As far as the regent knew, even Galien, the former Archbishop of Ghent, who lived with the Patriarch in the Crown Tower, had never had a face-to-face meeting. That the sentinels made frequent visits to the tower was common knowledge, but Saldur doubted if any actually stood in the presence of the Patriarch.

  That the Patriarch had left the Crown Tower for this auspicious occasion was a personal triumph for Saldur. He genuinely looked forward to meeting the great leader of the Nyphron Church—his spiritual father. The wedding was supposed to be a wondrous and moving event, a lavish production complete with a full orchestra and the release of hundreds of white doves. This day was the accumulation of years of careful planning, dating back to that fateful night in Dahlgren when the plan to elevate Lord Rufus to emperor had failed.

  At that time, Deacon Tomas had been raving like a lunatic. He claimed to have witnessed the miracle of a young girl named Thrace killing the Gilarabrywn. Seeing as how Saldur himself had proclaimed that only the true Heir of Novron could slay that beast, the deacon’s claim was perceived as a problem. Sentinel Luis Guy planned to erase the incident by killing both the deacon and the girl, but Saldur saw other possibilities.

  The Patriarch had wanted to name Saldur as the next Archbishop of Ghent, to take the place of Galien, who had died in the Gilarabrywn’s attack. The position was the highest in the church hierarchy, just below the Patriarch himself. The offer was tempting, but Saldur knew the time had arrived for him to take the reins of shaping a New Empire. He abandoned his holy vestments and donned the mantle of politics—something no officer of the church had done since the days of Patriarch Venlin.

  Saldur weathered the condemnation of kings and bishops in his battle against ignorance and tradition. He pressured, cajoled, and murdered to reach his goal of a strong, unified empire that could change the world for the better. With his guidance, the glory of the Old Empire would rise once more. To the feeble minds of Ethelred and his ilk, that just meant one man on one throne. To Saldur it meant civilization. All that once was would be again. Wintertide marked the culmination of all his efforts and years of struggle. This was the last uphill battle and it was proving to be a challenge.

  Saldur had expected the peasants to tire themselves out overnight, but their fury seemed to have increased. He was irked that the city, which had been quiet and orderly for years, chose this moment to rampage. In the past, people had been taxed penniless and starved to provide banquets for kings. Despite all this, they had never revolted. That they did so now was strange, but moreover, it was embarrassing.

  Even Merrick had been surprised by the reprisal, which had appeared to come out of nowhere and everywhere at once. Saldur had expected some disappointment at the outcome of the joust and anticipated a few troublemakers. He knew there was a chance that one of the knights would live and supporters of the fallen champion might lash out. What he had not counted on was both competitors surviving. With no obvious crime, their arrests appeared unwarranted. Still, the response was curiously impassioned.

  At first he thought it would be an easy matter to contend with, and ordered a dozen heavily armed soldiers to silence the agitators. The men returned bloodied and thinned in ranks. What they had met was not a handful of dissidents but a citywide uprising. The whole matter was frustrating, but of no actual concern. He had sent for the Southern Army, and it was on its way to restore order. That would take a day or so. In the meantime, Saldur proceeded with the wedding.

  The ceremony had been delayed a few h
ours, as Saldur had needed the morning to arrange armed escorts for the carriage’s trip to the cathedral. That had gone well and now he just needed to transport the bride and groom. He was anxious to get the final procession under way, but Ethelred had not returned with Modina. If he had not known better, Saldur might have thought Lanis was exercising his husbandly rights a bit early. Whatever the delay, he was tired of waiting.

  Saldur reached the empress’s bedroom and found two guards posted outside the door. At least Nimbus was following orders. Without a word to either guard, Saldur threw the door open, entered, and halted just past the threshold. The regent stood, shocked, as he took in the grisly scene.

  The first thing he saw was the blood. A large pool spread across the white marble floor of the chamber. The second was the broken mirror. Its shards were scattered like brilliant islands in a red sea.

  “What have you done!” he exclaimed before he could catch himself.

  Modina casually turned away from the window to face him, the hem of her white nightgown soaked red to the knee. She looked at the regent without qualm or concern.

  “He dared to place a hand on the empress’s person,” she said simply. “This cannot be allowed.”

  Ethelred’s body lay like a twisted doll, an eight-inch shard of glass still protruding from his neck.

  “But—”

  Modina cocked her head slightly to one side like a bird and looked curiously at Saldur.

  She held another long, sharp shard. Despite its being wrapped in material, her grip was so tight blood dripped down her wrist.

  “I wonder how a feeble old man such as yourself would fare against a healthy, young farm girl armed with a jagged piece of glass.”

  “Guards!” he shouted.

  The two soldiers entered the room but showed little reaction at the scene before them.

  “Restrain her,” Saldur commanded.

  Neither of them moved toward the empress. They simply stood inside the doorway, unheeding.